


this is where you fall apart

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Moon Knight (Comics)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Bryce Bandau Survives, But There Are Feelings Nonetheless, Clint Barton Feels, Explicit Sexual Content, Hawkeye: Freefall (2020), M/M, Marc Spector: Not The Hero We Needed But The One We Deserve, Mental Health Issues, POV Clint Barton, Past Clint Barton/Linda Carter, Past Relationship(s), Surprisingly Stable Marc Spector, The Sex Itself Isn't Violent But They Are Hurting Each Other As Well, Threats of Violence, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unstable Clint Barton, they're not nice to each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:09:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29197386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: A certain person intervenes in Ronin's private affairs, a few seconds before Clint falls right off the edge.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Marc Spector
Comments: 15
Kudos: 34





	this is where you fall apart

**Author's Note:**

> This continues off the end of Hawkeye: Freefall Volume 5. There's a little canon at the start and not much after that.

Clint’s face hurts.

Scratch that, his _everything_ hurts.

It feels like he’s been thrown off the side of a building – except that’s actually happened to him before, and even that didn’t feel quite as bad as he does now. There’s a line of bruises on his ribs that twinge painfully every time he takes a step and he’s pretty sure at least one of his fingers are broken, and he’s not even sure that’s _why_ he feels crappy. Maybe it’s just him. (He’s pretty sure Linda would agree.)

Clint’s starting to think he’s just broken on the inside so deep it can’t be fixed.

One foot after the other turns into him accidentally bumping into Aimee’s bike and knocking it to the ground. At least he's made his way back to Bed-Stuy without anything going terribly wrong along the way. He’s forced to focus again to place it back against the wall.

He looks down at his gloved hands.

The black covers up any red that might’ve been on them, but he can still see the dried blood under his nails from the last fight where he didn’t _quite_ clean himself up enough. He’s slipping. There’s no way he can get this done if he doesn’t have control of the situation. (Not that he’s ever had control, but he can pretend. He _needs_ to pretend.)

Alright. He’s going to wash up, get an hour of sleep and then go again. He should make sure Bryce has food as well – the kid’s too skinny and he hasn’t eaten a single vegetable since he set up camp in the basement, which isn’t surprising but it doesn’t mean Clint can let it keep happening. He goes to unlock the front door to the apartment building, except that the door is already hanging open.

Clint stops, the keys still dangling from his suddenly numb fingers.

No one leaves the apartment unlocked.

Not after Ivan.

“Hello?” He pushes the door open.

The hallway is dark. There’s no sound from inside – or at least, no sound that his hearing aids can pick up. The last fight fucked with them and now there’s a faint ringing noise that won’t go away no matter how much he fiddles with them. And he _refuses_ to take them to Tony to get fixed.

Clint’s so goddamn _tired_.

“You really picked the wrong building to rob tonight,” he calls out into the shadows. “I hope you know who lives here.”

Nothing.

That hot shower is starting to look like a far-fetched dream. _Fuck_. Installing that fancy shower head would’ve made more sense if he spent any sort of a significant amount of time in his apartment. Now instead of taking a break he’s going to have to break a burglar’s face. Maybe he can scare them off instead.

A memory flickers into his head unbidden and he’s too exhausted not to run with it.

“Moon Knight,” he says. “Dude is going to make a bathrobe out of your skin if he catches you.”

The only weapon he has right now are his keys and he keeps a tight grip on them, the jagged edges digging into his skin.

A door further down the hall creaks open.

The dark figure that emerges from the opening seems to bleed into the shadows around them as they approach. Clint braces himself for a fight, lifts his fists up even though every muscle in his body protests the motion. The figure doesn’t seem to be in any hurry but they’re not talking either and the stress clogs up Clint’s throat. He stays frozen until they take a step into the moonlight coming from the doorway.

The glow illuminates painfully familiar features – dark eyes, soft hair in scruffy curls over a tanned forehead, a scar over one eyebrow that cuts a clean line. It’s a face that Clint’s only seen twice over the last few years. His heart twists the same way it always has, though, and he lowers his hands as Marc Spector draws closer to him. And it _is_ Marc Spector. Not Moon Knight, not Mister Knight – and he likes to think he knows them well enough to tell that it isn’t Steven or Jake. Clint can count on his hand the amount of times he’s seen the guy in anything that wasn’t wasn’t white but here he is, faded green sweatpants and a tan bulletproof vest that looks like it was made back in the eighties.

Clint can’t figure out why he’s seeing him now, though. “Spector? What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Didn’t you hear?” Marc’s lips twitch into a humourless smile. “I live here, apparently.”

He pushes past Clint and their shoulders brush for a bare second before he heads up the stairs, apparently done with this conversation. Clint glances up at him as he goes, bewildered. It’s then that he notices the cracks – Marc’s favouring his left side, and his knuckles are red with fresh blood. What the hell was he doing? There’s no reason for him to be here, and certainly no reason for him to be fighting out of costume.

Clint looks back at the way he’d come from, thinking.

The only thing that way is the basement, which means-

Bryce.

Panic hits him. Marc’s forgotten for a moment as he lurches for the basement stairs, yelling Bryce’s name so loud that it hurts his throat. There’s a trail of blood on the steps; too much of it to have come from Marc’s hands only, which means-

“ _Bryce_!”

There’s blood on this door too, a red-painted handprint that makes his own blood run cold. He slams it open so hard that it hits the wall with an alarming creak and this is _his_ fault – what’s wrong with him, dragging a kid into this? He should’ve known someone would come for him but he’s been too distracted, too singly-focused on Parker instead of staying one step ahead of the people tracking him. If Bryce gets hurt that’s on him, and _he_ _can’t_ -

“Hey, dude,” Bryce says through a mouthful of fries. “You see that weird guy too?”

Clint stops.

All the twisted mental images his mind was supplying with vanish as he sees Bryce sitting on the couch exactly where Clint had left him, plus a new layer of burger wrappers. His beanie is slightly lopsided but other than that, Clint can’t see a single thing out of place in the basement.

“Are you-” his voice comes out rusty and he has to cough to clear it. “You’re okay?”

“Sure,” Bryce answers cheerfully. “Hey, you want to see a video of a cat wearing sneakers?”

“Not now. Did – did anyone else come in here?”

“Just the weird guy,” Bryce says. “And I think he was lost. He just opened the door and asked me if I was with you. Then he left again. Do you know him?”

“Yeah,” Clint mutters, more to himself than to Bryce. “Yeah, I know him. Look, I- I don’t think it’s safe here anymore. Tomorrow we’re going to get you somewhere safer, alright?”

Bryce tips his head to the side. “What about the fortress of solid dudes?”

“Anywhere you go is going to be a fortress of solid dudes,” Clint says, tries to muster up a reassuring smile. Judging from the expression he gets, it’s not a very good attempt. He's not sure he remembers how to smile properly. “Look. I- if something happens to you, it’s going to suck for both of us. I need to make sure you’re going to be okay.

“Can I still help you on missions?”

“Sure,” Clint says, relieved there isn’t going to be more of a protest. “And you can still have the money. But you have to stay safe.”

“Gotcha,” Bryce says. “Can we have In-N-Out?”

“No,” Clint says. He’s about to add that they’re going to have to eat _real_ food, like a salad (disgusting) and then he stops because that’s too embarrassing even for him. God, that joke about him being Bryce’s dad wasn’t too far off, was it? “I gotta go for a sec. You good for a minute?”

Bryce doesn’t even answer him, just turns on whatever video’s he watching and goes back to watching it. He’s wearing a pair of Clint’s socks – bright purple with little arrows on them, cheap things that Natasha had bought him one Christmas because neither of them had really been feeling the cheer. ( _He’d_ still gotten her a nice pair of daggers, and she’d loved them.)

Right.

Back upstairs.

None of his questions answered, Clint heads for the security of his own apartment. He could _really_ use a breather right now. He’s not going to get one and he knows that, but the idea is a nice one. Why was Marc checking on Bryce? Especially in those clothes. It doesn’t make any damn sense.

Clint pushes open his apartment door and Marc’s sitting on his couch with the curtains thrown wide open, looking out at the night sky.

Of course he is.

“Spector.”

“Barton.”

“Marc,” Clint says, dropping the premise. “The hell are you playing at?”

Marc lifts his head so their eyes meet and for a moment there’s a glint of silver in his irises. A second later it vanishes and Clint wonders if he’d hallucinated it in the first place. He doesn’t like chalking up anything Marc does as his overactive imagination, though.

Marc tips his head to the side, a little danger in the movement. “Wouldn’t you like to know, _Ronin_.”

“You know.”

“Of course I know,” Marc says. “I know you. And Bullseye isn’t exactly stingy with his intel once you break a few of his ribs.”

Clint jerks his chin at Marc’s outfit. “Where’s your suit? Suit _s_?”

Marc looks away at that. Doesn’t answer.

Which means whatever it is he’s been up to, his god didn’t approve of it.

Clint didn’t think he’d see the day Marc Spector did something for himself for once, and it’s funny in a terrible sort of way that he’s too fucked up to truly enjoy the moment. He circles around the couch so he’s standing in front of Marc, one hand on his hip and looming over the couch like he’s got any sort of authority that Marc would possibly care about.

“Where’d the blood come from?”

“Bullseye,” Marc says blandly, and Clint swears. “Don’t worry. He’s not going to bother anyone now.”

Whether that means Marc kicked the shit out of him, took him to the cops or straight-up killed him is impossible to tell. Clint can’t read it on his face either – he’s alarmingly blank, even as he pulls something out of his pocket and tosses it at Clint. It’s an old-school tape player, and Clint frowns as he finds the button to get it to play the audio recording. Marc doesn’t do anything at all as a crackle fills the room.

Bullseye’s voice echoes through a second later. “ _Can’t believe I’m making a tape for a deaf guy. You sure he can hear this? Okay. Hiya, Clinty. Been a- oh, you’re already here. Shame. I was enjoying the drama of it all, y’know. Was gonna leave you a little present for when you got home, from me to you. You just gonna stand there or are we going to have a real fight? I’m – wait. Who’s-_ ”

A thump and a crackle, and then silence.

Clint clicks the tape off again. “What was the rest of it going to be?”

“Robbins told him to steal your suit and go on a murder spree,” Marc says. “After he’d tortured the kid. Just to make sure you’d have a hell of a time trying to get to him with everyone else after you. And because he’s a dick and he wants to watch you break.”

Clint drops the tape recorder on the floorboards. It bounces once and then he steps on it with his boot, feeling the glass shatter underneath his feet. Marc doesn’t react to the violence, doesn’t even bat an eyelid at it. It’s going to be a bitch to sweep up later and he knows it.

The tiny kick of satisfaction is worth it, though. He turns his attention back to Marc. “You been keeping tabs on me?”

“Maybe I am. Barnes called me,” Marc says.

 _Fuck_. That meddling-

“He loves you, you know,” Marc adds, meeting Clint’s gaze. “But he can’t get through to you.”

Clint snorts. “What, you always come running when Bucky needs help?”

“It’s not him I came for,” Marc says quietly.

Clint doesn’t like that answer, so he turns away to stare out the window. His eyes feel hot. The damn moon feels like it’s staring him down from the sky. There’s a tremor running under his skin that he can’t quite manage to get rid of and he can feel Marc watching him, measuring him up to see what he’s going to do next. He exhales and closes his eyes, just for a second.

“I don’t like you interfering,” Clint says.

“Don’t give me a reason to, then,” Marc answers.

“I thought you weren’t doing this anymore,” Clint says, frustration creeping into his voice. “ _We_ weren’t doing this anymore, Spector.”

“We’re not doing anything,” Marc answers.

Right. This conversation isn’t going to get him anywhere, is it? What a waste of time. (He needs to thank Marc for saving Bryce’s life but he _can’t_ because that would involve admitting that Marc’s interference was a good thing and it’s _not_.) He doesn’t need anyone’s help. “I’m going. Stay or go, I don’t care. You know where the exit is.”

“You’re going to kill Robbins,” Marc says.

“ _You_ kill people,” Clint retorts, pointing out the nearby window at the ever-watching moon for emphasis as he raises his shaking voice. “You _know_ what it’s like out there! They go to jail for a day and then they’re back ruining people’s lives, and no one does shit about it. People die and nothing happens.”

“I kill people because I’m already a lost cause,” Marc says, unaffected by Clint’s outburst. “You’re supposed to be better. People _need_ you to be better.”

“What the hell do you want me to do, Marc? He isn’t going to stop hurting people. I _need_ to stop him.”

“That kid down there,” Marc says. “You want to see the look on his face when he sees you standing over the Hood’s corpse? The horror as he realises you could snap his neck just as easily if he pisses you off? Everyone knowing that you’re not an Avenger, you’re a murderer?”

“You were both,” Clint grits out.

“And I’m not a hero. You’re built differently. That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

“Being a hero doesn’t matter if people are _dying_.”

“Then find another way. You’re _not_ a bad guy. Stop trying,” Marc says, a sharp edge to his voice.

Clint wants to yell at him, wants to point and say he doesn’t _get_ it, but… truth be told, he’s probably the only one that _does_ understand what Clint’s going through right now. It doesn’t make sense that he keeps making it harder for Clint, though. Marc used to complain about him being too soft on a near-constant basis and now he’s insisting that Clint stay that way – there’s no way to win with this guy, is there?

God, if only he could make himself hate the guy.

Instead he turns on his heel and heads out the door again. He doesn’t tell Marc to get out of his apartment; he knows if he asked then Marc would go, and despite the sick swirl of resentment and anger in his gut he can’t make himself do it. He’s better off going to do what he was doing. Ignorance is bliss and a world without Marc Spector is a little less complicated.

“He’s put a price on your head. Three million.”

“Good,” Clint says.

Marc’s going to think he’s won.

Clint slams the door on his way out and then leans against the wood for a second, trying to figure out how to breathe again. He lets his eyes fall shut and fights to steady himself enough to get out there. He’s got to get Bryce somewhere safe, and then he’s got to find Robbins. Nothing else matters.

 _I’m not a hero_ , he’d said. Like he thinks that Clint _is_.

What a fucking joke. He's not even a good Avenger.

Over the buzzing of his hearing aids, he hears a weak cough and then a few muttered swearwords through the door.

How much did Bullseye hurt him?

What did he _do?_

Clint shakes his head.

It doesn’t matter.

Marc Spector _doesn’t matter_. What matters is stopping the Hood before he gets to anyone else Clint cares about – before he can hurt countless other people, Clint’s got to stop him.

Clint tastes the sharp copper of his own blood, realises he’s bitten through the inside of his cheek. The sting of pain focuses him. This is going to end right now. Hood’s done. He ordered Bullseye to kill Bryce just to fuck with Clint’s head and even if he didn’t succeed, he’s going to pay for it. Clint hopes he’s waiting for it. He hopes he’s scared – of course he won’t be, not right until the sword goes through his smug face.

A jolt goes through him at the same time as that thought, like his body is recoiling from the horror of the idea on its own. _You’re built differently._ He’s _not_ weak, and he’s not giving up on this. He inhales through his noise and straightens, heading down the stairs to find the Ronin suit and maybe, just maybe, some goddamn nerve.

Bryce is still on the couch when he reaches the basement, but he jumps up as Clint stalks in. “You’re never gonna believe what’s on the news.”

Clint grabs the Ronin mask. It had been a good choice to repaint it, he thinks. It's angry. Reflects all the fucked-up inside the suit too, now. “Not now, Bryce. I’m going after the Hood.”

“You don’t have to,” Bryce says.

Clint’s gotta find some boots that are easier to put on. He misses the ones from his old suit. These ones are _annoying_. “Uh huh. If you get into trouble, the weird guy’s in my apartment. He’s a dick about it, but he’ll take care of anything that could hurt you.”

It’s then that he realises he _trusts_ Marc. Fucking hell.

“No, I- are you listening to me?”

“Sure,” Clint answers distractedly. Where’d he leave that sword? Fuck it, maybe he should just use his fists. Who cares if the guy has magic spooky powers, he’s not going to be immune to a broken nose. Come to think of it – maybe Count Nefaria still has beef and wants to strike a deal. “Hey, do you have a list of those banks that Parker owns? I’m thinking I might pay one a visit, see if I can get some leverage on the mercs he’s sicced on me.”

“ _Clint_ ,” Bryce says, loud enough that Clint looks up from his pants to blink at him.

Rather than tell him verbally, Bryce holds up a video.

It’s a shaky recording. Police lights flicker red and blue in the background and Clint squints at it as a row of people head out of a building he’s already identified as one of Robbins’. It takes a minute to recognise his goons as the ones being escorted by the police in restraints. They don’t look confident this time – they look _scared_ , and their eyes dart around the area like they’re expecting a monster to jump out.

The camera swerves to the side, towards a small group of figures talking quietly with each other. Bucky’s easy to spot, the lights shining off of his left arm as he lifts a cigarette to his lips, a crease of worry on his forehead. Sam’s standing next to him, gesturing as he speaks to Bobbi, who’s got her mask pushed up onto her hair. His chest twists at the sight. What are they doing? Surely they wouldn’t have-

“ _Son, I’m going to have to ask you to step back_.”

The camera jerks as the person filming takes a few steps back and it swerves down to an all-too-familiar pair of red boots.

Clint had already known from the voice, but it doesn’t prepare him to see Steve’s apologetic smile, his glass-blue eyes looking straight at the camera and straight through Clint. It’s worse without the mask somehow and Clint swallows so he doesn’t retch, remembering all of a sudden that he’s been lying to Steve Rogers as well as Captain America. _Steve_. Fuck, what’s wrong with him?

“ _Sorry, Cap! My bad, I didn’t see the tape. Can I ask what’s going on here?_ ”

“ _We’re just taking care of some things for a friend_ ,” Steve says. “ _It shouldn’t have taken us this long, but we’re here.”_

Bryce speaks over the audio. “Does he mean you?”

Clint can still taste blood. He can’t make himself look away from the screen, or the way Steve just looks _sad_.

“ _This is Parker Robbins’ house, right? Where is he?”_

“ _That- ah. That is classified, I’m afraid.”_

Steve looks uneasy. Does he not _know_ where Parker’s gone?

Which means.

“What now?” Bryce asks as Clint stands up, stupid boots forgotten in the wake of this new information. He’s starting to put the pieces together and the more he sees the picture that it’s making, the less he likes it. Because he knows exactly who’s behind all of these new developments, and they’re the only one left for him to lash out at.

“You can have In-N-Out,” Clint says.

“Sweet,” Bryce says. “You want to watch Real Housewives with me, since you don’t have to go out?”

“I have something to take care of,” Clint says, feeling like a stranger in his own body as he goes up the stairs again. He doesn’t even feel them this time – doesn’t know what he’s feeling at all except that it’s raw and bubbling right under his skin where it’s threatening to break free.

The door nearly comes off its hinges when he slams it open, eyes fixing on the messy brown curls at the back of Marc’s head. “I thought you hated Steve.”

“I do,” Marc answers blandly. He’s stolen the last beer out of Clint’s fridge, the green glass cradled between bandaged fingers that are deceptively elegant despite the fact they’re almost exclusively used for punching things. He meets Clint’s gaze as he stands up, steady and unbothered. “I think he’s a spineless piece of shit. What’s your point?”

Clint feels – he feels _unhinged_ , seconds away from splintering into a million pieces. “ _You_ did this.”

“Did what, exactly?”

Clint punches him.

He doesn’t mean to – or he _does_ , but the movement itself is pure reflex, fueled by the sick feeling in his stomach that is slowly resolving into rage. There’s no holding back and Marc’s head snaps to the side, his eyes going wide with shock for a second before it fizzles out into that infuriatingly blank expression. There’s blood on his lip now and Clint watches him lick it, nearly vibrating with anger.

“Nice hit,” Marc replies, unfazed. “Thought you’d forgotten how to throw a punch, using all those fancy tools.”

Clint dives for him.

Marc doesn’t fight back as Clint wrestles him to the ground, doesn’t even defend himself as Clint traps his wrists against the floorboards and ignores the beer bottle rolling away. His skull hits the floor hard enough that’s it got to hurt and Marc doesn’t even react, just stares up at Clint like he’s waiting for something. He’s still not making an effort to fend Clint off.

“Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

Marc doesn’t even sound like he’s interested in the answer. “No,” Clint grits out anyway, shoves his hands a little harder against Marc’s arms. “It’s none of your goddamn business who I’m dating.”

“It’s not,” Marc agrees quietly.

That’s not why they’re here. “Where were you before you took care of Bullseye?”

“Nowhere,” Marc says, and Clint swears and hits him again. There’s no satisfaction to it and he does it anyway, just because he can’t _do_ anything else. Marc’s taken that choice away from him.

“Bullshit,” Clint snaps. “What the _fuck_ did you do with Robbins?”

“Does it matter?” Marc’s eyes are fathomless, empty pools of darkness. “If I killed him and you wanted him to die, it’s done. If I killed him and you didn’t want him to die, what were you trying to achieve? If I didn’t kill him but he’s still gone, why does it still matter? He’s not hurting people. It’s over. That’s what you wanted.”

Clint doesn’t say anything. His blood feels like it’s boiling.

Marc’s lips lift up into a humourless, all-too-knowing smile. “Why are you angry at me? Is it because of Robbins, or is it because you can’t hurt yourself by obsessing over this bullshit in the name of justice anymore?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Clint says. For a moment – however briefly – he means it, too.

“Do it, then,” Marc mutters. “I’m waiting.”

Clint lets out a frustrated noise and catches his lips in a bruising kiss. He wants it to _ache_ , he wants it to hurt the way he’s been hurting for as long as he can remember and Marc just takes it, lets him do whatever he wants without a word of complaint. His fingers tangle in the soft hairs at the back of Clint’s neck to keep him close and that’s as far as he goes, a barely-audible grunt escaping him when Clint’s teeth bite at his mouth.

There’s blood coming from both of them and it’s a health nightmare but Clint’s stopped caring. If he ever cared in the first place, that is. He’s reacting on pure instinct, some uncontrollable mix of rage and despair directed straight at Marc. It’s a wonder Clint isn’t trying to kill him. His brain supplies him with a mental image of it for a moment – Marc going cold under him, his snarky nonsense comments silenced – and he freezes, horrified by the thought.

Clint blinks and suddenly he’s on his back. It takes him a second to realise Marc’s flipped them over, so fast that he’s nearly missed the movement. Apparently stopping is all he needed to do to get Marc to _do_ something. He’s got one hand planted on Clint’s chest and when Clint tries to sit up, Marc pushes him down again. There’s no leverage like this, no way to escape – he’s taller, but Marc is bulkier than he is by a mile.

Marc’s not letting him go anywhere. He just stares down at Clint impassively, a bloody smear down his chin. The moonlight paints him silver and it really _is_ weird that he isn’t in white.

Clint attempts escape again and Marc pushes him back down on the floor, lips set in a flat line.

“I fucking _hate_ you,” Clint says and it comes out so desperate that the anger feels like an afterthought.

“Good,” Marc says.

Clint remembers, suddenly – a different situation, a million years ago with two different people. He’d said _I fucking love you_ that time and Marc had been horrified by it. Now he just looks satisfied, like this is exactly what he’d wanted out of this situation. Like he’d taken an opportunity to hammer yet another the coffin.

They’re both just taking out all their shit on each other, aren’t they?

Fuck, that’s a mess. For a moment he thinks Marc is just going to keep him here for the rest of the night – unsurprising, considering how much he’s been meddling today – and instead Marc kisses _him_ , teeth and tongue and the taste of copper lingering in their mouths. It’s terrible and awkward and Clint wants _more_ , can’t stop himself from arching up when Marc draws back to breathe.

“Needy,” Marc mutters against his mouth.

“Fuck you,” Clint manages, grabbing the front of Marc’s stupid not-white vest and tugging him back down until they’re pressed so close together that he’s having trouble distinguishing whose limbs are whose.

It feels more like a fight than making out and he can’t quite tell who’s winning. Marc’s fingers dig into a tender bruise on Clint’s side and he lets out a hiss of pain, knee jerking up to hit Marc in the spine. It’d be less effective if not for his shin guards and their sharp golden edges. As it is, Marc swears and tries to get out of the way of it which just means he’s pushing harder against Clint’s chest. Clint lets out a wheezing noise as his ribs protest but when Marc pulls back, he yanks him right back again.

Conscious thought turns fuzzy as Marc’s weight presses him down. Despite the aching pain it’s the first time he’s felt _safe_ for a long time, gasping weakly when he can catch a breath.

Instead of trying to shift away again, Marc hooks an arm underneath Clint’s still-arched back and lifts him as well. It’s stupid – he’s not small, and the angle is awkward for both of them. “We’re taking this to bed, Barton. I’m too old to do this on your floor.”

“Fuck off,” Clint says. “We’re the same age, you dick.”

Marc’s lips twitch up in a smile – it’s genuine, if brief, and somehow that breaks through the horrific mess of Clint’s emotions and creates a tiny pocket of warmth in his chest.

The peace lingers as Marc gets to his feet with effort – whatever Bullseye did to him, it’s knocked him around pretty badly – and helps Clint up as well, his fingertips digging into all of Clint’s sore spots again. It doesn’t seem so bad this time. Clint lets him help, gets his feet back on solid ground again and then shoves Marc against the wall instead, one hand on his throat.

“I’m not forgiving you for this,” he says.

Marc’s smile disappears. “I know. That's why I didn't let Barnes have a hand in it, even if he called my damn phone four hundred times.”

“I don’t-” Clint starts, and Marc tugs the knot out of his sash.

“Don’t start getting soft on me now,” he says, goading, _daring_ Clint to give back into the chaos.

Clint’s so goddamn tired.

Somewhere between the stairs and the bedroom he loses most of the suit. Marc’s clothes get discarded as well, tossed off the railing of the loft without a second thought. Clothes don’t matter; what matters is getting Marc’s body under his, setting his teeth into a spot that isn’t already discoloured. Marc’s nails dig into his back hard enough that Clint feels the telltale trickle of blood before the sting sets in.

Marc’s got a condom – Winter Soldier-themed, and Clint nearly throws it at his head. They’re causing enough health hazards as it is already, though, so Clint takes it before he licks a long stripe up Marc’s dick and then swallows it down. It’s been a while but he still remembers how to do it (and he’s memorised exactly what Marc likes) and soon Marc’s writhing against the sheets, his hand fisted tight and painful in Clint’s hair. He doesn’t speak out loud, though, doesn’t beg for it.

Clint _wants_ him to beg for it.

Marc’s hips twitch up off the mattress and Clint pulls away, wiping at the spit and blood with the back of his hand. He catches Marc mouthing _don’t stop_ silently, thinks maybe he wasn’t supposed to. It doesn’t help – why _now_ , for fuck’s sake? How long has he been – it doesn’t matter. Clint sucks yet another bruise into his thigh and takes the lube when it’s tossed to him, shaking hands making a mess on the already-dirty sheets as he pushes two slick fingers in.

“Just do it,” Marc grits out, but he still makes a helpless little noise when Clint crooks his fingers. He’s not patient enough to keep it up though, and a moment later he pulls his fingers out and opens the stupid condom’s wrapping with his teeth.

The curtains are closed up here. No moon, which feels significant somehow. He rolls the condom on and looks up to see Marc getting on his hands and knees, slow like the movement hurts him. It probably does, but Clint’s not going to be able to get him to stay still for long enough to assess his injuries (and he doesn’t care if Marc’s hurting, not right now.) It’s probably better that they don’t have to look at each other’s faces for this.

Clint rubs his fingers over the oddly elegant curve of Marc’s spine. He’s not gentle about sliding his dick inside in one sharp thrust – neither of them want gentle and he’s not going to give into the urge to drape himself over Marc’s back, whisper apologies in his ear like he wants to.

Clint’s hips are punishing, hard snaps of his hips that have Marc gasping out curses and gripping the sheets. He can’t fight back like this, doesn’t have the angle or the leverage to grab Clint and make him hurt. Whether that was on purpose or not, Clint doesn’t know, and it doesn’t matter.

Marc sounds like he’s getting close again and Clint grabs a fistful of his hair, tugs him back so his throat is bared. “Don’t.”

“I,” Marc says, voice hitching. “You think I’m going to listen to you, Barton?”

Clint lets out an unamused huff, lets go and watches his head hang down. “No. You’ve never done it before, why start now? You’d rather be a dick.”

“One day you’ll figure out that I’m doing the right thing,” Marc says and Clint plants a hand on his back to push him down, still fucking into him hard and fast.

“I can’t fucking _stand_ you,” Clint says, doesn’t mean it in the slightest as his voice cracks. “God _damnit_ , Marc.”

Marc breath hitches so loud that even Clint hears it and he comes like that, shaking like it’s taken everything out of him. He starts sliding down on the sheets and Clint has to wind an arm around him to stop him from faceplanting into the sheets, hips still pumping into him. He comes a second himself later, sinking his teeth into Marc’s spine to stop himself from saying anything stupid.

Clint tries to reorient himself – he’s got to get up, get rid of the condom, fucking leave – but he can’t even make himself move, not even an inch. His breathing won’t even out. It’s starting to sound more and more like sobbing and Marc’s still pliant under his nerveless fingers, warm enough that it makes Clint feel a little less frozen.

“Fuck,” he whispers and it comes out watery. Emotional. He's supposed to be holding it together. (There's nothing to hold it together _for_ , anymore.)

What the fuck is he doing?

“You’re heavy,” Marc murmurs.

Right. He pulls back. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Marc says. Like this is completely normal.

Clint rolls onto his back and stares up at his ceiling.

He feels.

Weird, mostly.

Not as angry, though. Just… weird.

It takes him a few hours of lying there to realise that Marc has effectively sexed Clint into taking out all his fucked-up emotions out on him instead.

That’s messed up.

Although, as he glances sideways at Marc’s bruised face, softer now that he’s unconscious, maybe there’d been some element of strategy to it. Clint doesn’t feel like he’s going to tear himself apart anymore, and he doesn’t know how long it will last but it’s something, for now.

They’re not friends, he reminds himself as he gives into the desire for skin contact that doesn’t hurt either of them. He doesn’t do much more than press his battered knuckles to Marc’s bandaged fingers, but somehow it gives him the comfort to start breathing normally again.

Sleeping here is a bad idea, but he can close his eyes for a brief second.

“Here,” Marc says in the morning, holding up a white card between two fingers. He’s still naked, one corner of the sheet covering his foot and leaving absolutely nothing of his bruised skin to the imagination. Some of the bruises are in the shape of teeth, the outline of Clint’s hand on his bare hip. Clint tries not to look at them too hard as he takes the card.

Clint reads the description and it pulls an incredulous laugh from him. “A fucking _shrink_?”

“She’s good at her job,” Marc says. “Used to idiots in our line of work, too.”

“You don’t go to therapy,” Clint says disbelievingly.

“I don’t,” Marc allows. “Give it a try anyway.”

“Fucking hypocrite,” Clint mutters, sticking the card in his pocket. “I’m actually leaving this time. It’s a day and a half trip to Iowa by car and Bryce is going to want two hundred piss stops. Are you going to be here when I get back?”

“Guess you’ll have to wait and see,” Marc says, stretching out in all his lax heavily-muscled glory, and for a moment Clint finds himself hoping.

Fuck.

**Author's Note:**

> Title Song: [Bow Down - I Prevail](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VDZEpxheh6E&list=PLBDi8oLoUF39lhHt_81JVuTQZxglGKyIX&index=1)  
> (There is an official MV for this song but it gives me a headache, so this just has the album cover. Many flashing lights and jumpy shots.)


End file.
